


The Young

by thefriendyouleftinthehallway



Series: incomplete works on possibly-indefinite hiatus [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Sherlock, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Moriarty looking after him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23455438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefriendyouleftinthehallway/pseuds/thefriendyouleftinthehallway
Summary: Sherlock (9&½) is a hyperintelligent runaway, hoping not to go back to a less-than-friendly home life. Jim (29) is a hyperintelligent criminal mastermind who stumbled upon him in an alleyway one day. Usually he would just have called the police or left the kid alone. Until the child guesses his occupation and what he’d been doing that day based on nothing but a glance. And that’s how criminal mastermind James Moriarty ended up with runaway Sherlock Holmes unofficially in his care. They both have something to give to the other. James can teach Sherlock how to be clever. Sherlock can teach James how to feel. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.INCOMPLETE.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, not actually slash but if you like slash you MIGHT like gen so y'know
Series: incomplete works on possibly-indefinite hiatus [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1687315
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	The Young

**Author's Note:**

> (This note is on every fic in the series.) I have a lot of unfinished work that I may never get back to and it seemed like a bit of a waste so I thought I’d just post the better ones as-is. That being said, I would like to state that while this piece of work is self-categorised as ‘unfinished’, that does not necessarily mean that I won’t ever return to them, so sadly the concepts are NOT up for grabs. (However, you can always post a work and put this in the ‘[this work is a remix, a translation, a podfic, or was inspired by another work](https://archiveofourown.org/help/parent-works-help.html)’ section: I’d be really flattered and surprised.)

**Note** :

As a certifiable idiot, I tried to make things seem clever, but they’re sadly not. Most of Sherlock’s ‘deductions’ are things that I could work out myself, which means… they’re pretty normal. But for the sake of picturing him as a genius, why don’t we just… pretend that they’re amazing? 

**Text** :

London was a far cry from home, but that was a good thing. He’d made it here, and it was here he would like to make a real home. 

Nine years old was a dangerous age to be alone on the streets of London at night, but he was small, fast, clever and very, very lucky. 

It was practically the stroke of midnight when he saw the man. The man had yet to see him, and Sherlock was disappointed that he could think of no reason that could apply as to why he was taking such a late night walk other than he was partial to them. 

Sherlock, just a boy, watched from behind a dumpster as the man talked on the phone briefly before hanging up. Something about being back soon. Irish accent. Dublin? The man took a few steps, turned to his side. He held himself confidently. He was important, then? The clothing seemed to indicate that. Obviously tailored, expensive fabrics. A rich man? What was he doing out here at night? 

“I know you’re there, you know,” the man called out suddenly. “Scurry off, won’t you?” 

“You only noticed me a few seconds ago. I’ve been here for minutes,” Sherlock said. 

“And how does the little mouse know that?” The Irishman asked, cocking his head and smiling unsettlingly, but gently. 

The man turned to face Sherlock, and Sherlock approached him. The tiniest,  _ tiniest  _ bit of blood on his collar. Any normal person might have not even noticed. Sherlock thought the angle looked more like he’d been very close to someone who had been shot rather than doing the shooting himself. Or someone with a nosebleed sneezed wrong next to him. It was hard to tell; he didn’t have much practice. But it was starting to seem like the shooting was more likely. Important man. Rich man. Important criminal. Clever, too. 

“You were moving… relaxed. And then you weren’t. A lot of people do it. Most people do it… loudly? Indiscreetly. You were subtle. It was impressive, but not good enough,” Sherlock explained. 

The Irishman grinned gleefully. “The mouse knows how to mew like the big cats,” he said. “‘Indiscreetly’ is a big word for a little mouse.”

“It isn’t, really. I’m nine and a half,” Sherlock said, lifting his chin and standing straight up, looking the Irishman in the eyes. 

“My mistake,” the Irishman said in mock humbleness, and Sherlock felt as if he was missing a joke. “You look young. Young _ er _ .” 

“You look old,” Sherlock said. “Unfortunate hairline. What are you really, 28? 29?” He narrowed his eyes and scanned the man’s hands, teeth and posture from where he stood, a few yards away. 

The man’s eyes flashed briefly with a dangerous coldness, but his expression morphed into a grimace. He did not like to be insulted. Sherlock, though he felt he should take a step back, stood his ground. He felt that it may be important to show that he wasn’t… scared? Weak? He wasn’t sure. But he wanted the power in the situation to stay as balanced as possible, and he couldn’t get that by running. 

“What’s a little mouse like you doing scurrying around the streets like this?” The Irishman asked. “Scamper on home.”

“You  _ know  _ I don’t have one. Not here,” Sherlock said. “You figured that out ages ago.”

“Did I?” The man asked, looking amused again. 

“You’re not an idiot. Why else would I be here?” Sherlock pointed out. “The real question is, what are  _ you  _ doing here, Mr Criminal?” 

The man laughed. “Criminal, am I?” He asked. 

“You’re important. You’re the boss. Just got back from something, an interrogation, an execution? Both, probably. Someone who worked closely with you, who did the wrong thing. You wanted to see them die because of the betrayal? That’s why the big boss came in person, isn’t it. No, you wanted  _ them _ to see  _ you _ see  _ them  _ die. That’s right, isn’t it? So they really knew how bad the betrayal had been, before you had them shot. Who was it? Right hand man? Bodyguard? Chief evil minion? What did they do?” Sherlock didn’t quite realise how confidently loud he’d become until he shut his mouth and the silence rang. 

That was before the Irishman chuckled lowly. “Clever little mouse, aren’t you? How ever did you know?” 

“They say crime doesn't pay,” Sherlock said with a smirk, stepping forward a bit and looking up and the Irishman. “But expensive suits don’t buy themselves.”

The man gave a small shower of applause, grinning. “What’s the mouse’s name?” He asked. 

“Sherlock,” said Sherlock, and stuck out his small hand. 

The man took it and gave it a firm shake. “James Moriarty,” he said. “How would you like to come with me?” 

After a few moments scanning the body language and facial expressions he was being presented with, Sherlock decided that he wasn’t about to sign a death warrant, and nodded, “Just fine.” 

  * ••



It was a sleek black vehicle, and the driver was a strong blond. When he saw Sherlock, the child thought they detected exasperation in his eyes. 

“Boss,” the driver sighed in the same tone usually applied for ‘what the fuck did you do this time’. 

“Look, look, he’s so fun,” James said, and then turned to Sherlock. “What do you think of him?” he asked, nodding towards the driver. 

Sherlock, clicking in his seatbelt, cocked his head and narrowed his eyes in consideration. “I haven’t heard him say much, but I’d guess at American?” he waited for a response, but receiving none, he continued anyway. “Good posture, likely ex-military, and I’d assume he’s not just a driver then. On a guess, I’d say he’s a crack shot, but not very smart. Doesn’t ask too many questions, gets his job done, and you like him. I can’t really guess much else, I don’t have enough practice.” He then turned to address the driver directly. “Do you have a drinking problem?”

James cackled. 

  * ••



James had been playing a role this whole time. Sherlock could tell. When they’d met and spoken in the alleyway, when they’d ridden in the car. But now, when they were in a spacious townhouse, some of that role seemed to involuntarily slip off. For the first time, there was an almost real awkwardness in the silence between them. 

The child took in his surroundings, and James stood there, realising that he didn’t quite know what to do. The criminal’s spontaneity had always been dangerous, but now there was a child in his living room. What do you do with children, again? You’ve got to feed and water them. They can probably clean themselves. How often do they have to sleep? 

Remaining quiet, Sherlock walked across the room and lay down on the couch, pulling the blanket that had been draped over the back of it for the sake of decor over himself and closing his eyes. 

“You’re just… going to sleep?” James asked. “With me in the room?” 

“You’re not a pedophile. You are a murderer, though. But you don’t want me dead, do you?” Sherlock asked, boyish voice oddly innocent for the words that it spoke. 

“No,” James said. 

“So why wouldn’t I sleep?” Sherlock asked. 

“Because people can change their minds,” James snapped. 

“But I know that you  _ won’t _ ,” Sherlock said. 

“But people--” James stopped, sighing. “Only here, Sherlock. Nowhere else do you sleep unless you’re  _ certain  _ you’re safe.” 

The words seemed ill-fitting for the mouth that spoke them, which had until very recently maintained a predatory playfulness. Sherlock smirked slightly under the blanket, eyes still closed. James was definitely not going to kill him. Not tonight, at least. 

“You don’t want me to die,” Sherlock pointed out. “Why are you so attached already?” 

“You’re clever,” James muttered. 

“You’re clever too,” Sherlock said. “Is that why you’re so lonely?” 

James walked out of the room quickly, and Sherlock could tell that he was tense by the sound of his footsteps. He was probably imagining the quiet ‘goodnight’. 

  * ••



When Sherlock woke up, James was standing over him, looking down at him with an expression as if the boy was a curious problem, deemed unsolvable and yet with a clear solution; it was just a matter of connecting the two together. 

When he sat up, the criminal passed him a piece of bread and a glass of milk. Lactose free, by the taste. It was thinner and a different kind of sweetness to regular milk, because lactose is a form of sugar, and to make milk without it more pleasant, sucrose, common sugar, was often added in replacement. 

He didn’t complain about the simplicity of the food; he saw no reason to. It was sustenance, and his body needed it to function. Nor did he hesitate to eat it, which seemed to unsettle James. 

“Why did you eat it?” James asked quietly. 

“Because you didn’t poison it. You don’t want me dead,” Sherlock said confidently. 

“How do you know that?” Moriarty asked, a bit of frustration in his tone. 

“Because  _ this _ ,” Sherlock said, gesturing to James, “isn’t annoyance that I’m underestimating you. It’s concern at my apparent recklessness. And it’s obvious.”

James turned away, looking annoyed. “You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference,” he said. 

“But I can. And I know because you’re lonely, and you’re lonely because you’re clever. And I’m clever too, and that means if you have me, you might not be lonely,” Sherlock said blankly. 

“You wouldn’t know if I was lonely,” James said, deadly quiet. 

“Of course I would. Is it not lonely among the clouds when the rest of humanity walks on the ground and you can never land?” Sherlock said quickly. 

“No, not when you don’t like company,” James said back, just as fast. 

“You don’t have to like company to need it,” Sherlock offered. 

James paused for a split second before snapping, “Men like me don’t need company.” 

“There are no men like you,” Sherlock said. “You’re playing a character.”

“A character that isn’t lonely,” James said. “And if I’ve been playing it all my life, where do I end and where does he begin?” 

“You tell me,” Sherlock said. “Because Moriarty isn’t lonely. But James certainly is, and the acting is just another way of lying to yourself.” 

James let out a shout of frustration. “I could kill you,” he said. “And I wouldn’t care.” 

“You’d pretend not to,” Sherlock said. “But you would care. And you won’t kill me.” 

Moriarty left the house, slamming the door behind him. He didn’t return for 9 hours.

  * ••



“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock said as soon as James walked through the door that evening. “You’re only angry because I threatened your sense of self-awareness. Sensitivity pertaining to one’s sense of self-superiority is only a weakness. It’s important to know when you’ve lost.”

“And you’ve been rehearsing that all day,” James said in a childishly mocking voice. 

“I know,” Sherlock said. “What else was I supposed to do? I got bored. There’s about three bullet holes in your wall, by the way. You’re not supposed to leave firearms where children can get to them.”

James glanced in the direction Sherlock did, and noticed the damage. He grimaced. “I just got that fixed,” he said. 

“I know,” Sherlock said. “You shoot the walls too, don’t you?” 

James scowled. “I got bored.”

“Me too,” Sherlock said. “That’s why you’re Mr Criminal. Right? Because it’s not boring?”

“So?” James asked. “I’m still bored. I’m always bored.”

“Go rob a bank or something, then,” Sherlock said. 

“That’s so crude. Surely you can think of something better,” James said. 

“Of course I can,” Sherlock said. “But I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Why not?” Moriarty asked. 

“Because you don’t want to talk to me. You left me here by myself for nine hours. What did you do today? Meet a client? Kill some henchmen?  _ Nine hours _ . If you don’t want me, kick me out and be done with it. Why would you keep me around if you don’t want me? You’re just like everybody else!” 

“…You’re upset,” James noticed. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said. “You could have taken me with you,” he suggested.

“Because clearly the way to look after children is to keep them around killers all day,” James said. 

“I’m not an ordinary child,” Sherlock said.

“I know that. If you were an ordinary child, I would have killed you already,” James shouted. 

“So you  _ are  _ lonely,” Sherlock said. 

They didn't speak for hours after. 

  * ••



“Take me with you.”

“No.”

“Take me with you.”

“No.” 

Sherlock pouted and put himself between James and the door. “Take me with you,” he said again. 

“Why?” James asked, ducking around him. 

“Are you overseeing an interrogation today?” Sherlock asked back, and every time he talked about James’ job, James’ heart stopped for a split second at such bloodied words coming out of such a young mouth, in such a pure voice. 

“Yes,” he answered. “The suit?” 

“The suit,” Sherlock agreed. It was one of Moriarty’s least favourite ones, meaning he didn’t mind all that much if it got stained. It wasn’t even westwood. Clearly the interrogation was going to be intense. 

“Why do you want to come?” James asked. 

Wordlessly, Sherlock walked into the kitchen, and pulled a bowl out of the fridge. By the consistency, it was some kind of sugar syrup; but it had been dyed the exact shade of blood. The little boy stuck his finger in it, and smeared it on his face so it looked like it was dripping from his nose. Then he covered his hands in it and ran them through his hair, and it matted his curls together, running slightly from his hairline. 

James could feel that his heart rate had accelerated: he didn’t like seeing Sherlock covered in ‘blood’. It made him… uneasy. Why? Why did that make him uneasy? He was stone fucking cold, a real villain; he had killed men, women and children in the past without blinking an eye. 

But suddenly, here was this tiny little kid, nine years old but looking about five, and someone that he didn’t want dead. He wanted to keep this Sherlock boy alive, because for once in his life he had been presented, as if fate was real, with someone who was clever like him. Perhaps the one person in the world capable of understanding, of seeing things the way he saw them. And he didn’t want to, no, he  _ couldn’t  _ lose that. 

That was the only reason, right? He didn’t actually care about the child, did he? He was simply pleased to have someone around who understood. Right?

“I’m a good actor,” Sherlock interrupted James’ thoughts. 

“What?” James asked. 

“The person you’re interrogating,” the boy said. “Are they a good man? What are their values?” 

“You think that if we stick you in a room with him for a couple of hours and then pretend to turture you in front of him, it will be more efficient than simply interrogating him classically,” James said. 

“Yes,” the child answered. 

“You’re probably right,” James admitted. 

“So you’ll take me with you, then, James?” 

“Jim,” he said. 

“Jamie,” Sherlock challenged. 

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” 

“Thank you.”

  * ••



Being, as it was, fake, it was still nigh impossible not to flinch. Because the kid had been right. He was a  _ good actor _ . And James couldn’t look away as the man pretended to kick him. 

He was grateful for the one-way mirror, because this whole affair would probably have been far less effective had the man they were trying to get information from seen that Moriarty himself was uncomfortable watching a child get ‘hurt’. 

The subject was quick to crack, and it was all round an impressive job. The look of triumph Sherlock gave him once it was over, made it worth all the cries of pain he’d had to watch him fake. 

All in all, the worst part of the day was the beginning, where James had to bare the raised eyebrows of his men as he explained what the plan was. He refused to answer questions about who the boy was, but he didn’t really care what assumptions were made, so long as the job got done. 

It was a success, and that was what really mattered. 

  * ••



“When I first met you, the person you had killed was important, wasn’t he? Head bodyguard, personal driver, best hitman?” Sherlock asked. 

“Yes,” James said, readjusting his position on the couch. 

“And the American replaced him,” Sherlock said. “You want to test the American, don’t you?” 

“Have something in mind?” James asked. 

“Remember the interrogation, Jamie?” Sherlock asked. 

“How could I not?” James responded, remembering the uncomfortable feeling. “What about it?”

“Something similar. More intense. Have him babysit me while you’re gone. Just a few weeks, maybe. Some time you’ve gotta leave town for a while. I can get to know him. He’ll get attached. Then you give him a gun full of blanks and order him to kill me. See how far he’ll go,” Sherlock said, childish smile on his face. 

James swallowed. “That’s… good.”

“It’s a real test,” Sherlock said. 

“Yep,” James agreed. “It really is.”

  * ••



Moran was not a psychopath. He seemed almost amusingly human for the work that he did. Of course, that didn’t mean that he knew how to behave like one. He was incredibly awkward, really, when looking after Sherlock. Not even in the way that some people found endearing. In all honesty, it was just disappointing. 


End file.
